Keeping It Real
by LostInColour
Summary: Triwizard Tournament, 2032. Written for a MNFF challenge.
1. Clandestine Manouevring

**DISCLAIMER** Harry Potter is owned by rich people. I am poor. No brainer, huh?

* * *

Keeping It Real

_By LostInColour_

Chapter One: Clandestine Manoeuvring

Adolf Clandestine always sat very upright in his chair.

He was always very upright. It was necessary for him to be, for him to succeed in the business that he was in. People needed to believe that he was a good, moral man, because then they would fund his research projects. They thought that he put their money to finding cures for cancer, lyncanthropy, rabies, and the dreaded DKSR. And it was true: he had put their money into research into cures for these things; in 2024, he had announced to the Global Medical Board of both sides that he had indeed developed a cure for cancer. His studies into the development of lyncanthropy were linking nicely into his experiments with rabies. He had recently crushed all common belief about DKSR.

However, he didn't put all of their money into these projects. His family had been rich before, and he had become richer still during the Muggle wars by developing and selling arms to both sides. This way, he could afford to put his funders money into the things that they paid for, as well as keeping some aside to bolster his own, private projects.

When Adolf had been a boy, his father had drilled into him the necessities of being careful. Careful with yourself, with others around you. Careful with their emotions, with their hopes, dreams and ambitions. Be especially careful when you are always twisting them to your own purposes. Subterfuge had been necessary in the War, and it was a lesson that Clandestine Senior had never forgotten. Everyone may not be your enemy, but everyone can be used. So Adolf learned, and remembered, and practised in secret. Now that he was a man, he was an expert. He had made lying his art form.

It had stood him in good stead in life. Adolf was, by some chance throw of a nature, a rather dashing figure. He was tall and lean, with a head of neatly combed blond hair and striking blue eyes. The affect he had when entering a room was not, as his appearance was, one of chance. He had learnt that walk when he was young, watching old movies of Hitler, Stalin, Idi Amin, George Bush, Jeremy Brett, Anthony Hopkins. The way that they walked commanded attention, commanded the room. No matter who was talking beforehand, when Adolf entered a room he was the centre of everyone's attention. Even the speaker.

The ability to lie with a straight face and a steady pulse was an ability acquired through long hours of study and practise. Adolf had had himself plugged up to a lie detector that measured everything from his heart rate to his pore width. A man he didn't know had come and interrogated him. He had repeated this test many times over the years, until he was now infallible to all Muggle detection.

Then he studied Occlumency.

This had taken longer, as Adolf found it originally difficult to remove all thought from his mind. However, he was a quick learner, and had patience born from years of failure. As soon as he mastered the blanking of ones mind, he moved onto the forming of false memories necessary to fool a master Legilimens. All in all, it took him ten years to become completely infallible, both by Muggle and magic means. But it was ten years well worth it, for now Adolf knew nothing could stop him in his ultimate goal. For Adolf Clandestine had a dream, as his namesake, Adolf Hitler, had.

Adolf had had a meeting with some of the people funding his lyncanthrope project, nicknamed _Wolfgang_. These people were all magical, and all rich. He needed their money for his private pet project, as _Wolfgang_ already had all the money it needed. In fact,the project had practically finished everything it needed to do: all that was left was to fully establish the new genetic code and insert it into a potion, tablet or fluid. He was, after all, hiring the best geniuses the world could provide from both sides. He would have them drag out the final stages, so that he would have a few more years to drain money from his "fellow sympathisers". The only problem he would have had with this would have been if there had been any of the old crowd from the War still around, but they were all dead or hiding, forgotten and wanting to forget. No, Adolf could take as long as he wanted releasing this cure to the market.

The office he used to meet potential investors was large and spacious, tastefully decorated and furnished, but not too opulently. He didn't want them to think that their money was being plugged into refurbishment, or else they would stop paying him. There were some quiet touches of class though: the desk was made of teak and the drinks' cabinet was a real Chippendale. All of the beverages where expensive and ancient – the oldest whiskey in there was nearing seventy years. These small things were carefully chosen to make the financiers feel more at home in this businessman's office, as if he was someone on their level of class. As if he was some they could connect with, understand, confide in. Adolf needed this. His charm and self-belief and lies could only get him so far with these people: they needed to feel safe giving their money to him.

Madam Rousifière was a sharp woman, with a brilliant mind that had lead to her making her millions on the property ladder. However, some of her sharpness seemed to have leaked out into her profile: her nose was pointed over-much, and her eyes were small, dark and bright, like that of a bird. Her skin was very pale, almost translucent, due to the extensive chemotherapy that she had gone through when she was younger and the wizarding world had yet to catch up with that of the Muggle.

He would have to be very careful with her. Madam Rousifière had a mind that pierced even the best of liars. But Adolf wasn't the best. He was better.

"Of course, Madam. The work, despite the difficulty and the problems with securing reliable samples to test, is going as best as can be expected – which means, of course, that it is running entirely to schedule. The vaccine, however…" he trailed off delicately, something that the Madam picked up on immediately.

"What about the vaccine, Dr Clandestine? Surely you haven't come upon a problem?"

They were speaking in Latin, which had surprised some of his investors when he had first met them. However, it was the only language that all in the room had in common. Adolf enjoyed speaking in Latin: he found that it was very hard, when one was not a fluent speaker, to use the subtleties of the language to their full advantage – in other words, it was very hard to lie. But that was what appealed to Clandestine, in the same way as _sudoku_. He enjoyed a challenge.

"Not a _problem_, as such, Madam Rousifière. More of a _difficulty_." He placed careful emphasis on the correct words. "You see," he continued, interrupting the Madam before she could speak again, "with things such as the new _Werewolf Registration Act_ as well as the old _Protection Act_, it is very hard to acquire samples." The topic was probed delicately, as always, for by acquire Clandestine meant kidnap, and by samples he meant human subjects. It was a delicate subject, for many of his investors were softhearted fools who disliked the taste of blood on their tongue.

"If there is a difficulty, Doctor, then I will send you some." Gregore Haschenzweit's harsh Russian accent slipped through even into his Latin. Adolf found it ran somewhat foul of his tastes, but his face showed only quiet thanks as he bowed his head in acknowledgement. Haschenzweit lived now in Romania, and he was well placed to herd some of the thousands of werewolves that no-one wanted and no-one cared about into the laboratories. "There are many in my immediate area who are considered a _menace to society_. I will be happy to allow you to help rid the world of their -" he stopped momentarily, as if remembering the company he was holding "- _affliction_."

"Why, thank you, _comrade_ Hazchenzweit. Your generosity will not go unnoted."

The meeting had gone fairly well: he had been promised a further three hundred million (Galleons) in total, with an extra two million given by them in his office, scribbled on cheques that would be sent on to the bank in due course. He couldn't have hoped for more, really: this project had been running almost seven years and, although he had come further than any researcher had come before, it was a very expensive business. In return, the nine investors had received a generous glass of brandy and a promise that their names would be on the plaque that was due to be raised at the front of the building, next to those of the scientists that developed it. He also promised them a vaccine against lyncanthropy, which was what had been keeping his scientists busying for the past three years, after the major work on the cure was done.

All in all, Adolf was happy with how his public work was going. But what he was really concerned with, as he strode long-legged through the corridors of the facility, was what was happening with his pet project, _Nirvana_. It was this that his attentions had really been focussed upon throughout these long years heading the research for treatments. Adolf had never married, and had no children or other family; _Nirvana_ was everything to him. It was his pride and joy, and was nearing completion. However, recently a problem had emerged. Some of the test subjects had begun to show abnormal side effects to the treatment, and so Adolf had forced his scientists into overdrive. They had spent four weeks working on the problem in total, working twenty-four hour shifts with very few breaks. There had been no complaints: no one wanted to get on the wrong side of Adolf Clandestine. Especially if you were a scientist.

It was to the secure underground bunker that he was going now, to review the progress made by his workers. He needed _Nirvana_ to work; all of the other projects that he had started had failed miserably after very promising starts. _Nirvana_ had lasted longer than all of them put together, and Adolf _needed it to work_. Nothing was going to stop him. Not now he had come so far.

He was getting agitated. His blood pressure was rising, as was his pulse. He needed to calm down, and so he began to recite the familiar passage to he used to empty his mind ready for intense concentration.

And so I follow you into the night, little soldier, eyes so bright. How little do you understand about what you will find on the barren land that rests between the dreams of reality and the realities of nightmare. You, with your tin hat and oversized boots, with nothing to call your own but your name. You, so scared and crying, whimpering in your own filth as you cower beneath the gun light that fills the sky with new stars that are evil and cruel. You, with your heart so pure and your soul so strong, your will so unconquerable that you are brave. Brave. And I love you so, little soldier, eyes so bright.

It had come from a book that Adolf had bought in a rundown, second-hand store on Baker's Street, called "The Cry of the Void". The author's name had been lost to the ravages of time, but Clandestine had made the book his own, and used it regularly in his stimulus work. It was the very title of the book that inspired the codename for his project: nirvana, meaning nothingness. He knew the entire work by heart, and was able to select separate pieces for his purposes, whatever the moment may call for.

Keep dreaming, Child of Ages, for the end will never come to dreams. Nightmares end, someday, with the coming of the dawn that men treasure so much. Dreams never end, for dreams are the hopes of men and men are nothing without their hopes. And hope is the worst of all evils, for it prolongs the torments of man. So dream for me, Child of Ages. Dream Sakura dreams.

The lift was a service one, not one of the plush, elegantly decorated ones that the investors used to travel to and from the fifty-third floor which was home to Adolf's office. This lift was plain, simple and functional. He liked that about it. He pulled out his key, which was attached to his belt by a strip of nylon fabric reinforced with rope, slotted it into the security lock and turned. Pushing in at the same time, the lock slid smoothly inward to become level with the panel, and Adolf pushed the button for the bunker. The button was easily told apart from the others on the columns: it had no labelling features. Nirvana – nothingness.

The greatest fear of man is both equal and opposite to his greatest desire: he must know both to overcome them, and know neither to remain sane. Once a man knows both of these things, he can have no need to know more: and as the main purpose of existence is to acquire knowledge, the knowledge that there is nothing more is fatal to any. However, a man may know one and not the other and still remain a man, for he may have interests in discovering the other.

_In human nature, there is a fail-safe procedure that allows us to believe that we are searching for knowledge whilst we are really trudging in circles. Life itself is cyclical, although the first man to accept that will be the first man to die. Some knowledge is best not gained, for something's are too terrible and too wonderful to know. Some things must remain hidden, secret, _safe

Adolf Clandestine was named after the great Adolf Hitler. They shared a common element, though not the one that Adolf's father had wished to see in his son. They both shared a dream that consumed them, one that took up every possible ion of their being as they fought to see it fulfilled. But where Hitler failed, Clandestine would succeed. He believed that Hitler's failing was in his making public his beliefs: he may have turned millions to his cause, but he had no chance of operating covertly once under the public eye. Clandestine, however, was able to do anything he so chose. He had both the influence and the affluence to see anything he wanted done, and he used this to great affect in his work.

Adolf Clandestine had a dream, and he would see it completed, even with his last breath.


	2. Athos, Porthos, Aramis

Chapter Two: Athos, Porthos, Aramis

"Yoo-hoo! Mack! Wakey-wakey!"

Gregory McAvoy turned his head to meet the gaze of the blonde girl next to him with a look of long-suffering patience. "You know as well as I, Sparks, that I _was not_ asleep."

Sparks, the blonde girl, grinned at her companion. "Oh aye, aw'course Ah did. But where would the fun in tha' be?"

Avoy delicately raised an eyebrow. "So, you are using me as your sport now, Kathleen? I thought you could sink no lower."

Just as Sparks was about to give a heated reply at being called by her first name, one of the other members of the compartment interjected with a complacent. Her name was Sabrina Hicks, and she had put up with her friends' playful bickering during transport every year since they had met. She had hoped, somewhat foolishly, that this year would be different, as it was the most special of all their time at Hogwarts for more than one reason. The first being, of course, that it was their last year. She suspected that was why this was the second occasion that Avoy and Sparks were arguing. They would have little chance to do so in the Big Wide World. "Avoy, stop being such a posh-arse. Sparks, go find someone's head to rip off. Work off that excess energy."

Avoy grinned at the Muslim (who was wearing a blue headscarf to commemorate the occasion – the three friends were in Ravenclaw) and ruffled the head of the short girl next to him, pulling her into a brotherly headlock. "Aw, but she's so _funny_, Hicks. Can'twe keep her? Look, I'll make her work off the energy." With that ominously innocent assurance, he knuckled her crown. Sparks immediately started to fight him off, but Avoy had years of practice at this particular form of punishment, and it was only when Sparks managed to bite his thigh that he let go. With a yelp and a pleading look at Hicks, he cowered pathetically from the blonde, who looked furious. "Hicks… make her stop giving me evils, Hicks. She's scaring me." He stuck his thumb in his mouth to complete the look.

He did indeed look so ridiculous (Avoy was five-eleven with shaggy brown hair. He was also seventeen) that both girls burst into laughter. There was an angry knock on the door and the face of Professor Hussein appeared around the frame. "Quiet, please," he snapped. "It's three o'clock in the morning, and most of the students are _asleep_."

Avoy, Sparks and Hicks saluted at the man, who frowned at the insubordination but did nothing about it. He too was missing his sleep, and he didn't have the death wish of dealing with them. The three had made something of a reputation for themselves: Gregory McAvoy had been attending public school since he was five years old, and knew far too well how to get around teachers; Kathleen Brennan had been christened "Sparks" for her temper and her size – at five foot four, she was the smallest of the year, and she had a matching notoriously short fuse and a killer chunk of dynamite at the end – she also called everyone "Mack"; Sabrina Hicks was the most sensible out of all of them, but that probably made her the most dangerous: teachers were inclined to believe her side of the argument, and this had been many plot-foilers' doom.

And now that these teenagers were on their infamous sleep-high (they hadn't slept properly for almost thirty-six hours, now), they needed constant reminders that they could _not_ blow up the room. It was alright for them to play Exploding Snap, but in a train travelling at over 300 knots at the bottom of the Marina Trench nothing more combustive was permitted. The magic stopping the train from bucking under the pressure wouldn't be able to withstand expansion from within.

Professor Hussein had been hoping that he would not have to pull the night shift until they reached their destination, but he had found out at yesterday's dinner that he would. The thought of having to force the hormonally-enhanced teenagers to sleep in separate beds had quite spoiled his appetite.

The teachers had long since given up trying to force the students into exclusive gender compartments, and had simply installed an alarm that warned if the temperature in the compartment was raised above the average. So far, there had been four such alarms: only one of them had been real. Apparently, the seventh year student body had banded together to try and put the teachers off their guard by setting off the alarms with Heat charms. They seemed to think that, if enough false alarms were triggered, then the teachers would give up and ignore them all. It hadn't worked completely, but it had delayed the presence of a teacher to the offending compartment long enough for the two teenagers to get extremely horny and to put Professor Newton (who taught Divination) off going into a dormitory ever again.

Another problem with the alarms was that the students were fast learning how to shut them off. Originally, they had been overloading them, but Jimmy Friend, Lesley Grave and Ezra Ashi – the three school geniuses, with IQ's that went off the scale – had quickly figured out a countercharm. Then, they had begun to instruct the students to replace the Heat-Detecting charms _outside_ the compartment. Recently, Professors Hussein, Gold and Locksley had taken to opening compartment doors at random, in the hope that they could catch them at it. Except that that had sounded too much like voyeurism, so they no longer gave a reason for why they performed indiscriminate searches of compartments.

With all of this going on, Professor Hussein had very little space left to worry about Avoy, Hicks and Sparks.

With the dawn came the sight of the Bulgarian Mountains, nestled in which was the school of wizardry called Durmstrang. It was at this particular school that the two other largest and most famous European schools of magic were sending their final years to compete in the infamous Triwizard Tournament. This competition – comprising of three tasks, several laborious ceremonies and one thousand Galleons prize money – had not been held for nearly forty years, ever since — despite strict new security features — an extra champion had been added to the Tournament, one student had died and Lord Voldemort had risen from the dead. Of course, Voldemort had now actually _been_ killed afterwards, and now that he actually_ was_ dead there was very little for the students to fear above the lethal events of the Tournament. At least, that was what the teachers were telling the parents of the students who would possibly be participating. Upon hearing it, Sparks had immediately scoffed. Loudly, in Glaswegian.

"Ah cannae believe that yi're gonnae believe tha', Mack," she'd said after the announcement was made one evening at dinner. "Et's obviously a load o' tripe. _Oi, ye, get yir filthy wee hinds offa ma brekkast, or Ah'll give ye what fae!_" A third year had just tried to steal the last sausage from the Sparks' plate. Sausage secured, she turned back to the conversation. "Et's perfectly clear tae any folk who jist listens that the wee gadgies jist wonnae git some 'imselves glory."

They made landfall at around four o'clock in the morning. The train then ran on land (without rails, something which confused Neil Hamilton – who was Muggleborn – and then confused everyone else when Jimmy tried to explain the science behind it) until it reached the school (at about eleven), cutting smoothly through the great white expanse of snow that was obviously supposed to be a lawn. One could just see the odd tuft of grass poking through here and there. The students of Durmstrang, along with their teachers, were waiting for them at the front of the school in time-honoured fashion.

The Hogwarts professors had gone around all the carriages to make sure that their students were prepared to wrap up warmly, ready to face the winter of the Bulgarian Mountains. On top of their usual school uniforms, the students had a variety of extra clothing that went under their school robes: Avoy was wearing fleece-lined everything, Hicks had a large woollen vest and under-trousers under the uniform and was currently pulling on her leather gloves. Sparks pulled on a set of woollen all-in-ones, Caribou fleece gloves (a present from her rich aunt) and her favourite, battered old moose-hunter. (The regulation school hat (the pointy black one that was despised by all) had been abandoned years ago after the students led a rebellion and refused to wear them at all. Several were suspended before the teachers saw sense.)

The Hogwarts students filed politely behind their escorting professors, who made contact with their Durmstrang counterparts. Professor Susie McBane, the Deputy Headmistress, greeted the Durmstang Headmaster with one of her booming laughs and a hug, which Professor Gorgorov returned with equal affection. The ice broken, the two schools mingled quietly, still retaining some of their former positions. After all, Beauxbatons had still to arrive.

By the time the enormous blue carriage had swooped down from the sky, Hicks had found a small group of students who also spoke Arabic and they had a few minutes happy conversation before Tom Banks (who does a brilliant Freddy Mercury impression) started a performance of "Another One Bites the Dust", which all of the twenty-four Hogwarts students were then obliged to join in, as it was their year's adopted song. They even had a dance routine to match, and this caused much hilarity amongst their audience. As a consequence, they were quite shambolic as Beauxbatons arrived, and the teachers hurriedly reformed the lines.

As the French students (all in blue mink) lined themselves up ready to meet the other two schools, there was much whispering as language barriers were fumbled past and introductions were made. Avoy had some Greek, and managed to maintain a stumbling conversation with some Greek students until Professor Locksley shot them a disapproving glare. Avoy was all for continuing the conversation: after all, Locksley hadn't specifically told him to shut up, but Hicks had elbowed him hard in the ribs. He glowered at her, but didn't speak again until they were inside and seated for lunch.

Durmstrang had put out an excellent spread for their newcomers: much of it was traditional Eastern European food, although British and French dishes were scattered around. Sparks tried a plate of Kosher beef, even though Hicks had tried to explain that it would taste much the same as Halal; Sparks did finish the beef, but then immediately went for a rare steak. Hicks watched it oozing blood (Sparks prodded it a few times, probably just to annoy her) before turning back to her goulash.

Gorgorov made a speech after the meal, of which Avoy, Hicks and Sparks understood not a word. However, they got the general gist of what was happening as Joan Marckey had a Bulgarian grandmother and so could just about follow. It seemed that the Headmaster was going through what was happening: maybe he hadn't explained it to his students, but Hogwarts at least had had the lecture on the Triwizard proceedings about four times.

Excited murmuring went around the room after he had finished speaking, when movement could be seen from somewhere behind the teachers' dais. Because the Hogwarts students were closer to the other side of the hall, it sounded like a rushing wave coming towards them. The whispering followed the Bulgarian Department Head of International Magical Co-operation (Jormund Polkiev), who carried a huge wooden chest covered with jewels. It looked ancient, if the green rust on the silver grout was anything to go by. Polkiev placed the chest on the small, velvet-covered table in front of Gorgorov, and Gorgorov spoke again.

According to Markey, Gorgorov was explaining the traits needed for the champion: magical ability, daring, ability to think on their feet and solve problems quickly, ability to cope with danger. He then opened the chest with a tap of his wand, revealing the fabled Goblet of Fire. For an object of almost mythical status, it didn't look like much. It was a rather crude wooden cup, unremarkable except for the blue fire in it, which looked rather like the jar-fire that one learns to conjure in First Year. However, the students all looked properly rapt, staring at the cup as Gorgorov gave his final instructions, translated roughly by Markey.

"Anyone who wants to be Tournament – no, sorry, who wants to be _in_ the Tournament as a champion needs to… um… put the Goblet – put their name in the Goblet before this time tomorrow." She looked fairly pleased with herself for managing to decipher the heavy accent of the Durmstrang Headmaster, and Sparks grinned, smacking her on the back in a comradely gesture that sent her head whipping forwards.

"Guid lass, Mack. Wi're all real prahd o' ye."


	3. d'Artists Affliction

Chapter Three: d'Artists Affliction

After lunch, the students left the hall – Durmstrang for their lessons, Beaxbatons for their carriage and Hogwarts for the train. Between them, Hicks, Avoy and Spark had managed to sneak a fair portion of food from the table, and the extra clothing helped enormously in slipping it past the teachers.

Although they weren't strictly supposed to bring pets, Hicks had been unable to be parted from her beloved, unruly puppy, d'Artagnon (or d'Arty, as he was affectionately known). Subsequently, the three had been forced to snaffle food at every sitting for the dog, who went wild everytime someone walked passed the compartment. The benefit (and the only one, as far as they could see) was that they got extremely good at quick Silencing charms. Sparks, who had the fastest reactions out of them, was the main one casting them and, as she was poorest at the start of the trip, Hicks announced that it was good practice for her. At this, Sparks had merely scowled.

Obsessed as she was with the French literate, Alexandre Dumas, Hicks had named her short-eared owl Dantès. This had caused some controversy in Ravenclaw Commons: Fiona Sui argued that she _couldn't_ call the owl Dantès, because Dantès in _le Comte de Monte Cristo_ was male, and Dantès the owl was female. Hicks over-ruled her with some complicated reasoning that back-tracked upon itself and twisted around that it became cyclical. However, she sounded so certain of herself (and her return took about fifteen minutes) that no-one contested Dantès' name again.

Most of the students had owls, and they would be following their progress as soon as possible: Dantès, Armageddon (Sparks) and Georgie (Avoy) would arrive at Durmstrang the day after the champions had been selected. And speaking of the champions…

"Are ye gonnae pu' yir naim in, then, Mack, or are ye gonnae see sinse an' _no'_ git yirself killed?"[1

"I'm not going to die, Sparks," Avoy replied wearily. They had had different version of this conversation ever since Avoy had first suggested going in for the Tournament. Hicks didn't have an opinion either way: if Avoy wanted to go in for it, then she would support him. If he didn't, she couldn't care less. Sparks, however, insisted that it would all go wrong and Avoy would be the next Cedric Diggory.

"Oh, aye, ye are. Or at least git yiself malkied. And don' coom cryin' tae me when ye face gits burn' off, 'cos Ah counae care less."[2 Her accent became more pronounced as she got more agitated – if this was possible.

Avoy raised an eyebrow. "Funny that, Sparks, but you sound like you care an awful lot to me."

Hicks joined the reparté (it could hardly be termed a conversation) without looking up from feeding d'Arty bacon rinds. "She means that she'll miss the sex, Avoy. And, if you die, we'll have a job explaining to that pissant of a Minister that it was all your own fault." The door slid open. "Fuck off,"[3 said Hicks, still not looking up. The Hufflepuff – Andy McNab – looked slightly offended, but looked at the other two.

"Avoy, Prof 'Igns [4 wants'a see you." He backed out immediately, a wary look at Sparks who was still fuming.

Avoy left, and Sparks flumped down onto the seat. She glanced at Hicks, who was teaching d'Arty the "Up!" command with a crust of bread. "W'ddyi mean, Ah'll miss the sex?"

Before Avoy returned to the compartment after seeing Professor Higns (who had wanted to ask whether still intended to take an extra class – to which Avoy had replied to the affirmative), he had slipped out of the train and darted across the grounds to the school. As always, he had a piece of parchment and a Biro on him (his mother had been Muggleborn, and quills were annoying to carry. They also had to be loaded before use), and he scribbled his name and school onto it, dropping it quickly into the Goblet. The flames flared green for a moment, before returning to blue. As he was walking away, Avoy realised that they didn't make a sound.

After dinner – which was a smaller affair than lunch, for which most were grateful – the three schools were encouraged to mix. Avoy, Sparks and Hicks saw Markey greeting some Durmstrang students in stilted Bulgarian as they left the hall, pulling on hats and gloves as they stepped outside. Hicks spotted her Arabic-speaking friends, and Avoy and Sparks loitered behind them as Hicks made introductions before leaping into conversation. The Greek boy Avoy had been speaking to wandered over and they resumed their halting discussion, whilst Sparks held a rowdy, satirical talk with a couple of Spanish Beauxbatons boys.

About fifty yards away, Josh Harlett, a black Slytherin with a fair-sized afro, stood with a group of French Beauxbatons students. One of them, a Georges Arnold, looked over at the three Ravenclaws.

"Who are they?" he asked, indicating them. "They appear to be very lively." Harlett spoke almost perfect French, and so the Beauxbatons students didn't have to struggle through their English.

Harlett looked at where he was pointing and grinned. "Athos, Porthos and Aramis," he said.

"_Pardon_?"

Georges looked astonished, and Harlett chuckled. "They're known as the Three Musketeers," he explained. "Their real names are Avoy, Hicks and Sparks."

Georges' expression morphed to one of slight bewilderment. "Forgive me, Harlett, but these are very strange names. But then, you English are a very strange people." They all jumped as bellowed Glaswegian crossed the short space between the two gorups of migling students with no apparent loss of volume.

"Ah ain't Inglish, ye arse-whoop'd damn Frogs! Ah'm Scottish, an' prahd tae be so! Even the damn Degos cud see tha'! If ye cannae tell the d'fference, then yi're a poor excuse fae'ra Frenchie! Do Ah _soond_ Inglish? Do Ah? If Ah have anythin' tae do with Inglan', then Ah'm _British_, aw-righ'?" Hicks stepped in, putting a placating hand on Sparks shoulder whilst Avoy roared with laughter. "No, Ah will _no'_ be quie'! The damn bastards jist insul'ed me tae Hah Hea'n, and ye 'spect me to _calm doon_? Wha's wrong wi' ye, lassie?"[5 Everyone in the immediate vicinity heard the exchange; Hogwarts students just shook their heads and moved on, or ended up like Avoy, who was now choking as he struggled to control his laughter at the sight of Hicks attempting to control the furious Sparks; Durmstrang and Beauxbatons appeared momentarily offended by Sparks' derogatives, but were soon placated by the Hogwarts' explanations of the Scotswoman's temper.

"Avoy!" Hicks snapped, almost reaching for her wand as she attempted to rein Sparks under control. "A little help wouldn't go amiss!"

Avoy, coughing and still chortling, walked over and wrapped his arms around Sparks' waist, pinning her arms flat as he straightened up, lifting her clear off the ground. Sparks struggled mightily, but stopped when Hicks' wand was leveled at her forehead.

"Now," she said, calmly but with a slight lack of breath, "are we going to play nicley, or am I going to have to put you under?" Sparks looked for a moment at the Muslim, who was standing with one eyebrow raised and her wand quite steady, then reluctantly relaxed. Avoy lowered her to the ground.

"Damn, girl, but you're heavier than I remember."

Lucnh ended the next day in enormous tension. Sparks, who had been in high dungeon for most of yesterday, had decided to except defeat in typical fashion: pretending it had never happened.she had found something else to complain about, however, in the guise of Avoy's surrupticious placing of his name into the Goblet. At this, Hicks, who had only just managed to get d'Arty calm enough to sleep by feeding him a huge chunk of bread, which settled happily in his stomach, threatened to cast a Silencing charm on her too (d'Arty snored).

Markey was translating for Gorgorov again.

"Um… when the champions are seen – um, chosen – then could they please go to the room to the left… behind the dais. Ah… there they will be instructed firstly."

The tension in the room reached a painful height: it seemed as an almost physical presence, pushing down upon the students. Hicks noticed that both the Beauxbatons Headmistress – Madame Rousifière – and Professor McBane appeared to be as tense as the rest of them, and as the other lights were extinguished, the blue-white fire of the Goblet lit Gorgorov's face, stress lines evident.

The fire within the Goblet flashed red, and a single piece of parchment shot out. Gorgorov caught it. Avoy could hardly breathe for the waiting.

"For Durmstrang…" They didn't need Markey for this, it was obvious what he was saying "… Malka Tzvarnsky!"

All the heads turned to the far right of the hall, where a girl with very pale skin and long dark hair stood up and walked across. Her face showed no emotion, although Banks said this was probably due to the shock. Her compatriots, however, more than made up for this, with the loudest round of applause that Avoy had ever heard. Malka Tzvarnsky disappeared through the door, and the room fell silent once more.

Another flash of red, another strip of parchment…

"For Beauxbatons," boomed Gorgorov, "Jacques duCarré!"

The table to the left of the one occupied by Hogwarts exploded into a storm of French and stamping of feet. A handsome black boy stood up, grinning at the applause as he walked passed his table. Towards the end, a thin girl leapt off and kissed him, at which cat-calls erupted around the room. The teachers attempted to call order, but it was the exit of duCarré and the emerging of the third piece of parchment that brought silence to the hall. The tension was so stiff it seemed to be buzzing in their ears: Hogwarts next…

"And for Hogwarts – " Gorgorov seemed to be taking a very long time to say the name, it was just a name… " – Gregory McAvoy!"

In the silence before the Hogwarts table could register who's name it was, Sparks' voice rang out, loud and clear, shattering the tension that had filled the hall since the previous day.

"Awa' tae buggery! Ye fuckin' did et, Mack!"

Then the applause, the cheering, the stamping and screaming. It wasn't until Hicks smacked him on the back and Sparks punched his arm that Avoy realised that he should be walking. There was a strange humming in his ears – he was the Hogwarts champion…

Avoy was still slightly numb by the time the judges entered the ante-chamber: he looked up at Susie McBane, and saw that she looked slightly apprehensive at the idea of him competing for Hogwarts' glory. He grinned, and she smiled back, shaking her head.

Polkiev was the last to enter, and he called the champions to order. A few moments later, and they had established that their common language was, in fact, Italian. Avoy undertsood enough to get the general idea: McBane had offered to explain anything he didn't pick up on afterwards.

"The first task, as ever, is designed to test your daring," he said, fire-light glinting off the smooth skin of his fine-bridged nose, "and thus we are not telling you what it is. Courage is consequential when a wizard faces the unknown.

"The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students of all schools and the judges' panel.

"Champions are not premitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks in the Tournament. The cahmions will face the first challenge armed with only their wands. They will receive informations about the second task when the first is over. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the Tournament, the champions are exempt from end-of-year tests.

"Ah, that is all. I suggest the three of you go back to your respective Commons. Your schools will be wanting to congratulate you, I am sure."

On back to the train, McBane looked over at Avoy and sighed. "You've really landed yourself in it this time, McAvoy. But please, try to keep the school's honour intact, won't you? It's bad enough that the three of you all managed to come along, without the added problem of your insatiable need to cause mayhem."

Avoy pulled a mock look of affrontation. "I don't _need_ to cause mayhem everywhere I go. I just _like _to. And you know you love it really, Susie Blueeyes." With that, he darted off ahead, barely dodging McBane's swipe at his head.

[1 "Are you going to put your name in, then, Mack, or are you going to see sense and _not_ get yourself killed?"

[2 "Oh, yes, you are. Or at least get yourself beaten up/banged up/knocked about/crippened. And don't come crying to me when your face gets burnt off, because I couldn't care less."

[3 Hicks was a good Muslim: she prayed five times a day, kept Halal, wore the hijab, was still a virgin but, like the rest of her year, had a tendency to swear. But not, of course, around her parents.

[4 rhymes with "signs".

[5 "I'm not English, you arse-whooped damn Frogs! I'm Scottish, and proud to be so! Even the damn Degos could see that! If you cannot tell the difference, then you're a poor excuse for a Frenchie! Do I _sound_ English? Do I? If I have anything to do with England, then I'm _British_, all right?[… No, I will _not_ be quiet! The damn bastards just insulted me to High Heaven, and you expect me to _calm down_? What's wrong with you, girl?"


End file.
